Neutron Star Collision
by Gosangoku
Summary: In rare instances, two neutron stars can orbit each other and eventually produce an explosion that can be seen light years away. — US/UK/US, 100 themes
1. oo1: Aeroplane

**This is my own personal 100 themes challenge that I'm making up as I go along. It will consist primarily of USxUKxUS, although there may occasionally be hints of other pairings mingled in with it. Originally, this was just going to be a collection of drabbles, but I can't write drabbles, and as such we'll have oneshots for each theme I come up with on the spur of the moment. The length of each will vary, and this isn't a story and so you will be bemused if you read it as such. Genres and ratings will differ throughout also. I hope you enjoy them.**

O-o-O-o-O

_Title_ – Aeroplanes  
_Rating_ – K+  
_Pairing(s)_ – USxUK  
_Genres_ – Friendship, romance, hurt/comfort  
_Warnings_ – Personified countries, homosexuality  
_Notes_ – 'Aeroplane' is the British English spelling. I am British and shall subsequently use that form. However, we also use 'airport,' so that shall remain the same.

O-o-O-o-O

It was dusk.

The sky was steadily darkening, cerulean evolving into navy and the line between light and dark smudging as the shady blue dominated the sky. The sun had set a while ago, but the clouds remained orange and red in the afterglow, and there were visible white vapours where aeroplanes had flown not too long ago.

It was loud, the sounds not reflecting the peaceful sky outside of the glass windows beneath his fingertips. He stepped back and sketched a heart into where he had left fog on the window from his warm breath, and scribbled in his and his lover's initials with a cheesy grin. _Trading Yesterday_ songs played into his ears, but beyond the music notes he could hear suitcases being rolled, trainers squeaking against marble flooring and parents shouting at giggling children.

An aeroplane had landed not too long ago, and he had almost hoped that his boyfriend had been on that flight even though the Englishman had provided him with a specific time. He should be arriving within the next seven minutes, but Alfred had arrived much too early due to impatience and longing to see the uptight Brit. He had wondered around, purchasing food and drinks to placate his boredom and eagerness, but had eventually retreated to linger anxiously by the window in hopes that his lover would have arrived early.

He pressed his forehead against the glass after _AFJ loves AK_ had disappeared, scrunching his nose up when he felt his glasses press against his skin harder, but ignored it in favour of staring pensively and hopefully at the darkening sky. He imagined rushing up to the man and wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him into a tight and loving embrace. He could picture himself grinning and the other blushing and shouting insults and objecting just to save face. He foresaw a romantic kiss that neither ever objected to no matter what the circumstance and feeling cold hands brush over his skin and run his fingers through honey blond hair—

And there it was, approaching steadily after appearing suddenly over the horizon. The aeroplane that carried his lover that he could soon pull into his arms and kiss passionately and never let go of. He ignored the fleeting thought of, _until next time_, and hurried speedily towards the gate where the man would walk through any moment.

He tried to stem any irritation and childish impatience as several people filtered through before the person he wanted to see, and cursed all the short statured blond men (and a couple of women) who scuttled through. After having watched _Final Destination_ the day prior, he paled as his overactive imagination sped into gear, wondering if, _Oh, God, is he okay?_ and _Please get here quickly, baby—!_And then he was there, short and blond and grumpy, and Alfred couldn't help but shout, "Artie!" in his usual obnoxiously loud voice as he wove his way through the ocean of people flooding through. "Artie," he said again, breathless and grinning widely and ready for a heroic kiss—

"Stupid git," that oh-so-familiar and _English_ and proud, snappish, but still somehow so loving voice. And then arms wrapped around his neck and lips pressed against his in a soft, gentle, and yet still somehow extremely desperate and needy kiss that left him craving more but requiring air...

"Arthur, Artie," he gasped, licking his wet lips and sucking in oxygen and Arthur's unmistakable scent of crisp autumn leaves and tea leaves. He met emerald green eyes that he missed so much and read the emotions floating in them, and couldn't control himself anymore. "I missed you so much!" he cried, effectively ruining the moment, and launched himself at the slighter man, hugging him tightly and ignoring the fake sputtering protests.

"I'm home," Arthur whispered softly against his mouth, cheeks flushed and fleeting but unstoppable smile blinding. The Brit's chilly hands wound themselves into Alfred's hair and he leaned up again. "I missed you too, Al..."

And they shared Alfred's picture perfect Hollywood kiss in the middle of the airport.


	2. oo2: Sociopath

_Title_ – Sociopath  
_Rating_ – T  
_Pairing(s)_ – USxUK + Russia  
_Genres_ – Angst, horror (hints of)  
_Warnings_ – Personified countries, homosexuality, murder (hinted at)  
_Notes_ – I've read too many dark!America fics lately... even though I like to think of him as somewhat innocent. Also, in this, Russia somehow reminds me of Hatake Kakashi, particularly with how I utilised the copy-nin's phrase...

**O-o-O-o-O**

Russia remembered.

He remembered when the seemingly innocent cerulean blue eyes darkened into metallic cobalt as he stared upon the bloodshed and manipulation with a blank gaze. He recalled the way lips that spoke faux naive words twisted into a smirk that reflected his thoughts of agony and anguish. He could see, in his mind's eye, the splatters of blood that coated his brilliant actor of a friend as he returned home, gun clenched tightly in his red and slippery fingertips, and the glinting white teeth as he grinned and said, "It ain't my blood."

He remembered all of it.

At the time, it amused him. The way such a childlike man could be masking disturbing and dark things beneath the eyes that looked like freedom and the mouth that spoke false promises. America reminded him of himself with how he cleverly hid his twisted fantasies beneath the surface, just lurking in wait, and yet appear and sound like a clueless, oblivious, _normal_ person.

Russia thought that England didn't realise.

He watched, as if examining his own private show, as England exasperatedly fixed America with a scowl, lectured him about his farfetched ideas and argued with him over the past. He thought England was unaware of the danger inside of his precious America, but Russia was also good at seeing underneath the underneath.

And he could see.

Murky green eyes were closed off. Whenever he was spoken to, he met people's eyes, seemingly without fear. He always seemed challenging, but Russia knew. Russia knew that he was an actor too. He was aware that England drank until he couldn't see straight, couldn't put jumbled thoughts together, and nothing made enough sense to care about. He knew, because he did the same thing.

He knew it all.

England was as much of an enigma as America was. Masking everything with anger, just like America disguised everything with cheer. But there was a difference. They were similar, and yet so diverse, because America had come to a point where his jubilance had become almost real. He had delved so seriously into his acting that he didn't have to try so hard to feign it anymore.

Russia was almost proud, if not for the rivalry between the two it provoked.

He was bewildered. England was predictable, and yet he was incomprehensible, and the inconsistency irked Russia. He wanted to know more, but he did not wish to be involved with the Brit's strife. But he examined from afar as England snapped irritably at America, got riled up and argued, and then deflated, looking disappointed and concerned and hurt, whenever his previous colony turned away.

It was tantalising.

The way fiery emerald eyes easily simmered down into exhausted, pained, but still so bloody _understanding_ dark green. Much to his own chagrin, Russia had to admit that he was perplexed. He himself acted in an analogous way to the American, but everyone was terrified of him, and those closest to him gave in.

But England was never one to be so easily defeated, was he?

_Although_, Russia deduced from watching how he never showed the pain that he felt when beside America, _he is masochistic._

Because no matter how many people America killed, no matter how many people he hurt or how many lives he may destroy, England was worse.

He was always worse, and he was always accustomed to the pain.

"Hey, Iggy, wanna come over to my place tonight?"

Russia raised his gaze from his documents to scrutinise England's reaction. A myriad of emotions swirled through pained, fearful, _loving_ green eyes, and then he smiled. Slow, painful, and his lips read, _I'm sorry_.

"Tch. Fine. I suppose I have nothing else to do anyway. And it's not like I'm doing it for you or anything, remember that!"

_I'm not scared of you, I'm just terrified of what you're turning into. I'm sorry this happened to you. But it's my fault and I still care for you, and so... I'll stay by your side, no matter what._

It was normal that way, and everyone was content, and nobody noticed the thirst for a wrong kind of justice in sky blue eyes. Nobody ever noticed, aside from England and Russia.

But neither wanted to do anything about it.

**O-o-O-o-O**

"Say, America..."

"Yeah, Iggy?"

"How do you plan to save the world?"

_Innocent cerulean eyes regarded him for a moment, before a soft but determined smile decorated his lips. "I'm gonna be the best hero the world's ever known, Igirisu! I'm going to restore justice to the world so that nobody has to suffer anymore!"_

Half mast blue eyes, still the same but now chillingly contrasting, stared back into his, and his lips twitched. "I'm a hero, Iggy, you know that," he murmured deeply, pinning England with his gaze. "I'll bring justice to the world... even if certain blemishes on society have to be removed for that to happen."

England closed his eyes minutely to retain the image of a sweet and childish colony, clinging desperately to his hand and laughing so purely...

He looked at America again, who was still beaming at him expectantly. "Doesn't... Doesn't it hurt?" he whispered, leaning forwards slightly and clutching his chest as he thought of London.

America blinked, honestly bemused. "Doesn't what hurt?" he asked.

_Your heart_, England thought, but instead murmured tiredly, "Nothing... Nothing at all."

America just smiled.


	3. oo3: Letters

_Title_ – Letters  
_Rating_ – T  
_Pairing(s)_ – USxUK  
_Genres_ – Romance, humour  
_Warnings_ – Personified countries, homosexuality  
_Notes_ – It was going to be a different theme at first, and with a drastically different story line, but someone I care about is kind of low right now so I hope this makes them feel better. :)  
I've tried this format before in another story, _Writing Sweet Nothings_, and it went down quite well. I'm considering taking this one larger scale in its own private oneshot. What do you think? Although I'll probably go ahead with it anyway. XD  
In any case, enjoy!

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Dear Alfred_, he wrote, and stared at it for a couple of minutes before scratching it out and writing, _Dear America_. But it still seemed wrong. After going through several alternatives and ranting at inanimate objects, he tried again.

_America,_

I hope you're well. It's been quite a while since I last saw you. And before you delude yourself, no, I do not miss you at all, you self-absorbed prat. I'm simply very bored and have nothing to do, and so I've decided to write to you. Don't be grateful or anything, because it's not as if I'm doing this for you! But you wouldn't thank me anyway, you ungrateful brat. I bet you're currently obsessing over new pieces of machinary and technology you and Japan are coming up with. I really don't understand the point in all of it. Before you make a jibe about my age, it's not because I can't use the bloody things, they just seem useless.

Aside from that, I spent a day with my siblings two days ago. I spent a good part of yesterday passed out in Brighton. Just don't ask. I don't even know how I got there. But I hurt all over. I know I got drunk, but I think Ireland whacked me over the head with something... Ugh, I don't know, but it still hurts.

It didn't go smoothly, obviously. It never does with them. Scotland chased me with an axe, which brought back some... traumatising... memories. Then I had Northern Ireland shouting at me, and I can't remember why. She's such a bint. Then there was Ireland, who was just a cunt as usual. Bloody prick, he was. Honestly, at one point he pinned me to the floor and threatened to spit in my face! Then Wales "accidentally" knocked into him and... ugh. Don't kiss an Irish person. I think I got drunk just from that. And sick. I threw up all over him. Serves him right.

But Wales isn't so bad. He's a bit of a bitter person, but he's an all right bloke other than that. Although he did tease me when we went to some stupid car boot sale. That unicorn plush was only five pounds. How could he expect me not to buy it?

...I still like the one you won me the best though. But if Northern Ireland rings you and tells you I sleep with it every night, don't listen to her!

Anyway, I think Mrs. Twinkle requires my assitance in the kitchen. Goodbye for now, Alfred. Take care.

I love you.

After only a moment's deliberation, he poured tip ex over the last three words and replaced it with his signature.

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Hiya, England! :D_

It has been a while, hasn't it? Too long for his liking, at least. But he wasn't about to admit that. _Maybe we could meet up sometime. Y'know, if you ain't busy or anything and stuff. _That didn't sound too desperate, right?

_Wow... Seriously, your siblings are messed up, England. I remember 'em. Kinda. I remember Scotland trying to feed me stuff that was even worse than your cooking, and both Irelands (what's the difference anyway btw?) tried to give me whiskey. You got soooo mad at 'em! But I never talked to Wales much... Not after I walked in on him jerking off to a picture of... Forget it. Just forget it. But they're even weirder than you._

Of course you'd like the one I won you! Haha, that's so awesome! How cute, England~ He didn't include how he himself blushed when reading that England liked his best... and that he slept with it! Of course he'd deny it, but it was so adorable. He couldn't pass up the opportunity! _Omg! You sleep with it? Aww, Artie, that's just too friggin cute ya know! :D Kind of girly and stuff, but... :P_

Mrs. Twinkle...? Oh right, that's one of your fairies, isn't it? Honestly, England, you should see someone about your "invisible friends"...

So anyway, I got a new game. It'd be awesome if we could play it together sometime. I'll go easy on you, but I'll still kick your ass! Haha!

Later, England. I'll call ya!

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Good day, America,_

I'd like that, he wrote, before blushing furiously and grabbing the tip ex. Instead, he corrected himself with, _I suppose it would be all right to see you at some point, since it's been so long. But don't get me wrong, it's not because I want to see you or anything like that._

My cooking isn't as bad as you make it out to be, brat! I guess I won't give you the scones I made. Not that I even made them for you in the first place of course! I did it for my own benefit. As for the whiskey, as if I'd have let a child drink that! Even now, I wouldn't like you too. I know, I know, I'm a hypocrite, and I'm aware that you're probably feeling indignant now... I know you're an adult. You're a fine young man, Alfred. I just... He just what? He couldn't very well say that he worried for the overgrown child. Get flustered, he just scratched out the last two words and proceeded without an explanation.

_The bloody hell did you see Wales looking at? I hope it wasn't what I think it is... I have memories too, you know. They are my older siblings... unfortunately. _Damn Wales and his weird fetishes.

_My friends aren't invisible, you twit! You simply can't see them because you don't believe in them, you insult them, and you're not innocent enough! Not like you once were... _He trailed off at that, beginning to reminisce about when a little energetic colonial America chased after his fairies happily... Shaking his head, he continued, hoping America wouldn't know that he went off into one of his "nostalgic old man" modes.

_You're such an arrogant tosser, America._

...

But I suppose I wouldn't mind playing one of your childish games with you if it means so much to you.

Be safe.

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Englaaand!_

Sweet in regards to meeting up then. When's a good time for you? D'you wanna visit me or would it be easier if I came to you? 'Though you sounded stressed on the phone earlier, so maybe a holiday in the US would do you good?

Your cooking sucks, old man! Stop deluding yourself!

...But I guess since it's been so long, I could choke down one of your burnt as hell rocks. I mean scones. :P

And England... stop daydreaming about me as a kid. It's kind of disturbing. Besides... all it does it make you sad. So just... stop it if you can. You being sad is... It... Just try not to so much, all right? I'm a superpower now. I'm older now - not as old as you though! - and I'm not a naive little kid anymore. So just... see me as I am now. It might be kinda disappointing, but... whatever.

Urgh. I'm just not comfortable with Wales. I mean, I have weird kinks too, but... c'mon. Just... no.

Of course I ain't innocent anymore! And... you saying you are? England. Seriously? XD Besides, unicorns are only seen by virgins... You wanna tell me something?

You will? :D Awesomeee. We'll play when you come over!

Bye bye, Arthur! He wondered if the other man would notice the name change...__

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Alfred,_

I'm quite available as I do not currently have any pressing concerns or issues to deal with. Of course, there's the slump in the economy, but that will just take its time. The weather's been rather turmultuous and I go from being overheated to freezing my bloody appendages off. Basically, any time is fine for me. I know you're quite busy nowadays, so it's best if you decide.

My cooking does not "suck"! You just don't have a sophisticated pallet.

But. Er. Oh. You would? Well, since you hate them so much, it's fine if you don't want to... but I'll bring some along anyway just in case.

...You idiot. You're the opposite. I could never be disappointed in you. I'm... I regret a lot of things that have happened. But I'm quite... proud of the man you've become. He refused to write any more in fear of sounding too sappy. In fear of Alfred realising that he...

_Well, we all have our... preferences. Do you think Wales would get along well with Germany? I'm sure they could find some common ground..._

ALFRED! Don't insinuate such things! Bloody hell! You always say yourself how old I am. Of course I've not been deprived of... that.

...Sounds good. I can't wait. No! That sounds too desperate! _I guess it'll be fun, at least somewhat._

Until next time, Alfred. x

**O-o-O-o-O**

They both loathed the distance between them, and the irritating and inconvenient time difference, but they never tired of long phone calls and exchanging letters. They always savoured their time together, even though they showed it with banter, lectures and childish pranks. They stored each other's letters safely in their bedside drawers and read them every night, and they always looked up into the sky and thought of one another. Always dreamt of holding each other again.

But sometimes, the letters had to be enough. So, as soon as England had boarded his plane and America drove back home, he grabbed some paper and a pen and began to write.

_Dear Artie..._


	4. oo4: Reminiscence

_Title_ – Reminiscence  
_Rating_ – K+  
_Pairing(s)_ – unrequited?USxUK  
_Genres_ – Angst  
_Warning(s)_ – Personified countries

**x.**

Saturated photographs were strewn across the carpet, most of them greyscale and sepia toned, all reflecting the bittersweet memories captured on film. Of course, not all memories were captured: he had so many nostalgic film sequences flickering on and off in his mind, ones that nobody remembered in the same way he did. There was his brothers fooling him and chasing him through the woods; France claiming and tainting him, his blood from war wounds and "love making" slipping onto the stone floor; an innocent America holding his hand...

He had a lot of photographs of America, but most of them were fake or dark. There were the old vintage ones of America and Canada trying on their suits, the revulsion and disgrace lingering clearly in the more extroverted brother's stormy eyes (How long had he looked so scarily grown up and repulsed by England without his noticing?). With trembling hands, he allowed that photo to slip from his fingertips and onto the floor to accompany the assortment of other painful memories lying there innocently.

The darjeeling tea had long since turned cold due to its neglect in favour of photographs. Nonetheless, he sipped it with vigour, greedily gulping down the cold black tea and grimacing at the bitter taste it left. He took a shuddering breath and carefully placed his delicate and slightly chipped china tea cup on his mahogany table (the one with the wonky leg that often creaked under too much weight), twitching at the sound of china clinking on wood.

Photographs, for him, were like the sea: the bottom was imperceptible, but you could always tell they were deep and meaningful.

His poignant gaze swept over the room full of melancholy reminders of what used to be and what would never be again, catching on some and rewinding. _Brighton beach, we all went to have a picnic (France cooked, but only because I didn't feel up to it) and paddle in the sea, but it started to pour with rain so we got soaked and sought refuge beneath the pier_. His lips twitched at the sound of cascading rain and innocent laughter that filled the silence, but the dreamy atmosphere was broken by the shrill ring of the telephone. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed his tea cup (he would drop it off in the kitchen after he took the call), and wove his boney fingers around the phone.

"Hello?" he breathed, voice unusually soft, as if he had been suffocating in the thick air that contained too many memories. Reminiscing always stole his breath away. It was as if he had been alive in the past, and that was when he had been breathing. Now, he was existing, almost as if he was in a comatose state...

He was torn out of his reverie by an exuberant voice, the sound like chalk on a black board, wind chimes and car horns. "Heya, England!" the person on the other end of the line greeted brightly, as loud and dominant as ever - his voice always overruled areas. Whenever they went out, he always cut off whoever was speaking to throw in his own two cents or to change the topic. Sometimes, he felt as if the other man was constantly undermining his opinion. Or just didn't care.

"America," he responded, hoping that his wavering voice sounded normal; the emotions behind that one name were undetectable...

"So, how're you?" he asked, and England felt his heart flutter and butterflies blossom inside of him because the fool was actually asking after his health and well being- "Ah, whatever, it's not like that's important anyway." He felt his heart sink and - what was with that metaphor anyway? Organs did not simply sink. Although, currently, he felt as if he could have been drowning... The flood of past images flowing in his mind's eye and the very same voice he had fallen asleep listening to in the past speaking such uncaring words down the phone... "I was just calling 'cause..."

He put the phone back on the receiver, wondering how America would react to the unresponsive dial tone. He would probably just get irritated and then forget about England entirely, getting on with his day, unperturbed by thoughts of people from his past as if they didn't matter at all.

He slid down the wall and let his cup fall. It didn't smash, but the crack slipped open more, and the few leftover drops of tea seeped out and into the carpet.

It wasn't just the cup that was cracking...


	5. oo5: Winter

_Title_ – Winter  
_Rating_ – M  
_Pairing(s)_ – UKxUSxUK  
_Genres_ – Angst, romance  
_Warning(s)_ – Personified countries, sex

**x.**

Once upon a time, it had been he who was afflicted by France, having his innocence torn away and his body and mind tainted by whom he had considered an elder brother. The bastard had informed him that such an act was performed by lovers to express their feelings of affection for one another, but there was no "affection" in it when the elder man had enseamed their ties, stole his chastity and filled him with sin.

His personality ranged from frosity to fiery on a daily basis, but the heat of his temper could never diminish the ice of his words or mentality. He had always been a frigid person, never letting anyone in and encasing his heart in some sort of ice shield. Nothing and no one could diminish the barrier of stoney coldness inside of him.

_London's burning_, people cried on the streets, and the agonised screams echoed in his own mind and made him shudder at the pain. He felt the hurt of his people, but he didn't feel the heat of the fire eating away at his heart. His heart was too far gone to feel.

Even as the strong, outgoing, young, _new_ America writhed beneath him, gasping and panting, moaning and shouting gibberish, the heat of the actions did nothing to melt the cold. Even as sharp teeth, slightly yellowed from tobacco, bit into his flesh and left scorching marks and the proclamation of _mine _tarnished his already-tainted flesh, he felt shudders wrack his frame that didn't spurn from the younger nation's efforts.

When America was the one dominating him, embedded deep within and being ordered to go faster, harder, rougher - _Make it burn!_ - the flames of burning heat didn't ebb away at the inner ice.

"What's wrong, England?" the naive, clueless American enquired, glancing up worriedly from the television. All England could hear from it was white noise and the occasional flicker of a meaningless word.

He glanced up from the ink splattered across parchment, and then back down to see typed words on pristine white paper. His trembling hands clenched into fists, his untrimmed fingernails digging into his chilly hands and forming harsh red crescents. The silence of the outside reminded him of the season, and the ticking of the clock filling the room told him the time.

"I'm winter," he breathed, with an empty, frosty laugh.

All America could do was kiss him, but it tasted of frozen tears and cold tea.


	6. oo6: Snow Angels

_Title_ – Snow Angels  
_Rating_ – K+  
_Pairing(s)_ – USxUK  
_Genres_ – Romance, humour, FLUFF  
_Warning(s)_ – Personified countries, FLUFF GODDAMN FLUFF, and snow  
_Notes_ – Wow, I'm seriously going for these today, eh?

**x.**

Footsteps crunched beneath old boots, and their harsh breaths allowed smoke-like wisps to rise up into the night sky.

"S-slow down, Alfred!" Arthur gasped, stumbling along behind the excited American. Although Alfred wasn't that much taller than he was, the other was at least a bit more accustomed to diverse climates. So, when he turned back to see his lover staggering and trying to keep up with him, he relented and paused, waiting for the older man to bump into him. "Oof-"

Alfred wrapped his arms around the Brit, grinning down at the flushed face, and he wondered if it was due to the cold or because he was flustered. In the end, it didn't really matter - it was adorable either way. So, tilting Arthur's head up with his thumb, he brushed his lips softly over the shorter man's, revelling in the shudder of pleasure that he felt run through Arthur's spine.

Blushing brightly, the Englishman pulled his way, and for a moment Alfred thought he'd object to the public display of affection. But, to his surprise (and insurmountable joy), the older man simply wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a deeper kiss. It was soft and quietly romantic rather than spontaneous and passionate, but those quaint kisses that both parties attempted to prolong were their shared favourites.

They exchanged several fleeting kisses on their little hike through the colourless forest. Naked trees greeted them with feeble waves of their snow-covered branches as a strong breeze fluttered through the atmosphere.

"I haven't seen so much snow for years," Arthur breathed in awe, staring up at the ongoing sky in some kind of poignant admiration. Warm arms wrapped around his waist and drew him against another body, which he easily fit against.

Alfred's lips slipped over his ear, and he whispered in amusement, "And yet you freak out over, like, a few centimetres of snow."

The shorter man elbowed him lightly in the stomach, amusement flickering in his own emerald eyes. "Oh, belt up," he mumbled, tone not at all reprimanding, and the American just grinned. Dropping his hands from encircling Arthur's waist, he thread their fingers together and spun the Brit around to face him. "What do you think you're doing, Alfred?" Arthur demanded, cheeks blooming bright red once again as they swayed from side to side.

The American drew Arthur into him, and then lightly pushed him outwards, spinning him, and then pulling him back, an arm encircling the Brit's waist. "Dancing," he answered softly, burying his face into his lover's hair and inhaling the scent of old books and unknown teas.

"In the snow?" the older man asked, although he obviously didn't mind as much as his dubious tone suggested, for he leaned into the American's touch and rested his head on the leather-clad shoulder of his fiancé.

"I think it's an awesome setting to dance in," Alfred whispered into the honey-blond locks, swaying in unison with the Englishman. "Our footprints will be embedded into the snow... Even if it'll be covered by more or the snow melts, we'll know that we had all of this snow to ourselves... and we danced in it, under the moonlight, just us. Together." He breathed out softly, holding Arthur even tighter than before.

The Brit allowed a soft little laugh to escape his trembling lips, and he smiled into Alfred's jacket. "I'm torn between complimenting you on your poetic phrasing, or laughing at how sappy you just sounded." He pulled away in time to see Alfred's sulky pout, and tugged on his hand.

"What is it?" Evidently, the American's insatiable curiosity drastically outweighed his adoration of sulking.

Arthur simply flashed him an uncharacteristic grin before shoving the taller blond, sending him topping backwards into the snow. Azure eyes blinked open, widening in the aftershock, and he scowled. "What was that for-?" he demanded, only for Arthur to lower himself on top of him, pressing their lips together. Neither tried to gain the upper hand and reign control over the other - they simply allowed themself to fit together like unmatching but still somehow fitting puzzle pieces.

Alfred allowed himself to fall back again, bringing the Brit with him, and they laughed. It sounded somehow hysterical and hoarse at first, loud and echoing in the empty atmosphere, before suddenly evolving into soft little chuckles in between chaste kisses.

"Hey, Arthur," Alfred suddenly murmured, the warmth of his breath ghosting over his lover's face, and Arthur smiled invitingly. "What do you think it'll look like when I get up? Hardly a snow angel."

Arthur allowed their hands to intertwine again as his smile softened further. "Idiot," he murmured quietly, "It'll be our own angel. One with broken wings because it doesn't want to fly away..." He rested his head on Alfred's chest, squeezing his hand. "Our own angel..."

Lips twitching, Alfred squeezed back. "You're the idiot," he mumbled in response, "if you don't know that you're the only angel for me."


	7. oo7: Breakdown

_Title_ – Breakdown  
_Rating_ – M  
_Pairing(s)_ – hints of unrequited!USxUK  
_Genres_ – Angst  
_Warning(s)_ – Personified countries, self-harm  
_Notes_ – You saw the warning. You might not want to read this. I wouldn't blame you.  
Also, please excuse the use of other languages. I'm hoping I didn't screw them up. They all said, "Hello, England."  
Additionally, China commonly says 'ahen' rather than 'aru' when speaking to England to refer to the opium wars.

**x.**

Last chance to turn back.

The mind is a terrifying place to be on your own, you see.****

x.

_Pathetic._

A choked sob. He couldn't stop crying. He really was pathetic. The word echoed in his mind, taunting voices of everybody he had ever known allowing the taunting but true insult to slip from their lips.

_Foolish._

Why was he shaking so much? The knife was shuddering violently in his tight grasp, his fingers white from the pressure, and he gasped as the blade touched his skin, still trembling above the scarred flesh.

_Worthless._

Of course he was worthless. Everyone he had ever loved left him eventually. His elder brothers were supposed to love him, but all they had ever done was "toughen him up" by chasing him with weapons and forcing him to hide or kill to live (_"Stop being a coward, little brother! You want to be able to be strong, aye?"_); France's romantic declarations of love proved to be false or based on lust when the self-proclaimed "older brother" ingrained his own language into England by defeating him, dominating him and _tainting_ him (_"Say 'I love you', England... in my language... Come on. Lie to me. You are a very good liar..."_); Japan forming an alliance with him only to end all ties and throw all of their feelings away (_"I am sorry, England-san... I cannot love you."_); America... just... leaving him... (_"I want to be independent, England... I'm no longer your younger brother or your colony."_)

_Disgusting._

Nobody could ever love him... He had done so many horrible things and he couldn't even bring himself to regret some of them. He remembered the thrill of claiming more colonies and seeing the anguish in the eyes of their families (_No wonder China hates me..._), the adrenaline rush of killing nameless people, the bloodlust pumping through his veins as he locked eyes with whoever his enemy was at the time...

He was repulsive. Nobody could ever want to be with _him_... He was a monster. He had to rid himself of the monster. But it was surrounding him constantly - it was inside of him.

"Get out," he whispered, eyes wide and dull and his lips trembling. "Get out!"

The blade could never go deep enough to get the monster out...

Droplets of crimson dripped onto a picture of the allies - America's arm draped gingerly over his shoulders, France basking in the satisfaction of being able to touch him again, Russia standing beside America with his violet eyes glinting, and China opting to stand beside his fellow communist rather than be near someone as revolting as _him_...

"Help me," he pleaded, shaking back and forth as he stared at all of the pictures of false smiles on his walls and his tables. Too many faces that had all disappeared after allowing lies to spill from tainted lips-

He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating in himself.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, and the silent pictures just watched him, wishing he would suffer more.

He shared their hope.

**x.**

"Bonjour, Angleterre," a French accented voice purred as he entered the meeting room, and prowling hands skuled around his back. _He never spoke many words to him, because they both knew all the underlying messages his tone and his touches meant-_

England felt his skin crawl.

"Ni hao, Yīnggélán. You were almost late, ahen," China murmured, tone as soft and silky as always but also with the constant tone of loathing beneath the smooth voice. _Always quick to point out every little thing that seemed insignificant, and with that suffix saved only for him because of what he did-_

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

"Privet, Angliya." Russia smiled at him even though he had no reason to do so. They were allies but Russia detested him or didn't care about him. He was fixated on China and America and England was just in the way. _Forever smiling with dead eyes that saw right through him-_

He prayed that he wasn't trembling.

Emerald eyes peered up through his fringe that he had been forgetting to trim lately, not that it mattered since nobody ever looked at him and nobody ever noticed- (He tugged his sleeves down and sucked in a shakey breath at the burning.) "Hello, America," he greeted, cursing himself for the whispery, breathless voice that made him sound so goddamn _weak_... He was never stronger than America though, was he? He once had more resources and he had more experience, but he was _nothing_ compared to the younger nation in terms of strength... He could break his neck faster than his heart.

America didn't even look at him. "Hi, England."

_Don't call me England... That's the monster's name..._


End file.
